


Electric Blue

by trickybonmot



Series: Omegaverse Serial Secondary Sex Change AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, But only a bit, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, Domestic, Established Relationship, Knotting Dildos, Large Toy, Love, M/M, No mpreg, Omega Verse, Omega/Omega, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Serial Secondary Sex Change AU, Sex Toys, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what is in the bottom drawer of Sherlock's dresser, anyway?</p><p>Just a bit of follow-up smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electric Blue

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't enjoy being slightly confused, you probably should read the prequel, [Face the Strange](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3247949), first.

“Are you sitting comfortably?”

“…Not particularly.”

“Good. Then I’ll begin.”

And John gives Sherlock’s freshly shaved cheek a surprisingly gentle caress, and walks away.

It’s been two minutes since Sherlock put his dressing gown, tee shirt, and pajama bottoms back on, alone in the privacy of the bedroom.

Five minutes since, lying alone on his back on the bed, he got the toy fully situated inside himself.

Nine minutes since he started inserting it, with no supplementary lubrication allowed or, in fact, required.

Twenty-five minutes since he got into the shower.

Twenty-seven minutes since he woke, alone, to John’s omega scent and the sight of Sherlock’s most extravagant toy lying on John’s pillow. The long, thick, curved one, with the remote controlled variable-speed vibration and inflatable knot, and the knobby bit at the base. It’s made of black and turquoise swirled pearlescent silicone. Because realism is not the goal. Sherlock doesn’t actually make use of this object very often, as it’s almost too much, really. A case of biting off more than one can chew. Or eyes bigger than one’s…anyway. It was an impulse purchase.

There was a note attached to it, with instructions: shower, shave, insert (no artificial lube, take your time), dress normally, report to sitting room.

Forty-five minutes, he estimates, since John left Sherlock asleep in bed and went poking about in the bottom drawer of Sherlock’s dresser. Sherlock told John ages ago that that’s were he keeps his stuff, but to Sherlock’s knowledge he’s never taken a really good look before. Never reached all the way to the back. Where this thing was.

Sherlock shifts in his chair. About nine hours since John spanked him to a rosy glow, came between his thighs, and left him aching. In every sense of that word. Gorgeous bastard. Sherlock shifts again. They’d both been alpha, then, and he got off on the denial, but, he tells himself, he’s not much appreciating it now. He’d like very much to get on with things.

When Sherlock came out of the bedroom, moving more or less normally, John got up from the sofa. His eyes flicked over Sherlock’s body and up to his face, assessing, and then for a just a moment he dropped his mask of calm and gave Sherlock a smoldering kiss. Sherlock rocked on his feet, already a little unsteady what with one thing and another, and then John pulled back, looking cool again. He took Sherlock’s elbow and steered him gently into the sitting room, then helped him to sit down in his grey leather chair.

That was four minutes ago, now.

“Water’s hot,” John says, from the kitchen. “Care for a cuppa?”

“No thank you,” Sherlock says. 

“I’m done with the paper, if you’d like it,” John says. 

“No.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

So Sherlock sits in his chair with nothing to do, nothing to keep his mind off of the thing lodged inside him. The temperature of the silicone still hasn’t quite risen to match his own, and he can feel the whole chilly length of it. Sitting puts pressure on the knobby bits, in particular. Probably designed for that. He shifts, and shifts again. Clever.

He almost jumps when John taps his shoulder with the folded newspaper.

“You look a bit stiff,” John observes. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” He takes the proffered paper reflexively, then throws it on the floor when he realizes he refused it only a moment ago. John, already back in the kitchen, doesn’t react.

Sherlock shifts again. What is John doing, anyway? Rattling dishes, running water. He pours a bowl of cereal and begins eating it loudly. Dull. Sherlock shifts _again_ and realizes he’s almost rocking. So he rocks, back and forth, several times, and then several more times. Sweat breaks out along his hairline.

“Restless?” John calls, and Sherlock stills, unaccountably embarrassed. He can tell by the heat in his face that his cheeks must be bright red. 

“I know you have the remote.” His voice is very nearly steady.

“Oh, was there a remote?” John asks. “Don’t think I saw anything like that in there.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Sherlock starts, and he’s right on the brink of actually getting up to go and find the thing when John _finally_ pushes the button. Sherlock bites off a groan and sits back in his seat. Far back. He slouches, trying to tilt his pelvis to take the pressure off, but he can’t quite manage it. The low, insistent vibration seems to be everywhere at once, and it feels like madness. He squirms, fingers drumming on the chair arms. He could call a halt, but he doesn’t want to actually _stop._

“Try sitting straight up,” John says, peering round the door frame. Then he’s gone again.

So Sherlock sits straight up. It’s still intense, but better. Far more focused. A deep, spreading heat starts up in his cubicular nerves, and those knobbly bits are—well. A bit of all right. Sherlock’s eyes drift closed. Shift. Oh. All right then. Rock. 

Sound of John’s footsteps. Sherlock stills himself with an effort. The footsteps stop, and he cracks one eye open. John is leaned up casually against the shelves by the kitchen door, smiling with frank enjoyment, the small black remote held loosely in one hand.

“Having fun?” Sherlock asks. 

“Loads,” John says, rather quietly.

He might be still smiling, but Sherlock’s eyes are closed again, so he can concentrate on…that…spot…

“I don’t quite know what all these buttons do,” John is saying, somewhere, and then the vibration just _stops_. But before Sherlock can react, it starts up again, on a slow, thudding tempo that rises and falls in intensity. He bites his lip and holds very still. 

“Are you all right, love? You seem a bit distracted.” Sounds of footsteps coming near, and then he opens his eyes to John’s fingers softly brushing the hair back from his forehead. “Christ, you’re burning up. Can a I get you a paracetamol? Draw you a cool bath, maybe?”

This is not funny _at all_. “John,” Sherlock grits out. He means it to sound stern, but doesn’t quite get there, and then John is kissing him, cooling his heated cheeks with the soft touch of his fingers. 

“This is only the second setting, you know,” John murmurs. “I think it goes up to five.”

“Ngh,” Sherlock says. And then John pushes the button again, and Sherlock can no longer sit still. 

“Oh, don’t get up,” John says, as though he were offering to fetch something for a houseguest, but the firm press of his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder tells a rather different story. “I know how much you enjoy relaxing in your special chair.”

So Sherlock pushes his feet against the floor, and tries to move his weight onto his elbows, but it’s too difficult to maintain. After a moment, he shifts again and folds his legs up into the chair, so that he can sit on his heels. The vibration in his arse is all he can think about. Eyes squeezed shut, he rocks, unsure whether the motion is voluntary or not, whether he could stop it even if he wanted to, as the toy sends shock after shock through his already overstimulated nerves. If he had a knot—god, if he could _just_ get a knot inside him for one fucking second—he’d be off like a shot, he’d come like a…like a…

“That good?” John asks, quietly.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, without opening his eyes.

John touches a finger to his jaw, then, and Sherlock jumps at the contact, not wanting to lose focus. But that gentle finger strokes down his neck, down his chest over his tee shirt, down to the tie of his dressing gown, which John unties with a single, deft movement. And then John is—Jesus—touching his cock, caressing him through a single thin layer of cotton, and he hadn’t known how much he needed just _that_ , that sweet, centering drag of flesh on flesh. Or near enough.

“John,” he murmurs. “Please.”

John’s hand slides down and back, to where Sherlock is—

“Mm, soaked through,” John says, low and close to Sherlock’s ear. “Should have put a towel down.”

He gives the butt of the toy a couple of casual taps through the wet cotton, sending wild shocks through Sherlock’s interior, then pushes sideways on it so that it tilts inside him, and he feels it all over again, God, _deep_ up in there, improbable, so lovely, deep like John’s cock when he’s alpha, but this is thicker, only it doesn’t quite give him what he really…really…

“Want to try four?” John asks.

“Please,” Sherlock says again, although _four_ is irrelevant, he just wants—

Four smashes through him like a hammer blow and, no, he really _can not_ stay in the chair, and he squirms out sideways to get his knees on the floor, not caring whether John gets out of the way or not; he just needs to get his arse up, needs to bury his face against the (damp, omega-self-smelling) chair cushion, and moan and whimper into the shelter of his own arms. He is everywhere wet, his overflowing arse and his desperately dripping cock and even his prickling, watering eyes. He knows his hips are pumping fruitlessly in front of the chair, right there for John to see and probably John is just going to let him go all to pieces without even…even….

A warm hand on his sacrum, soft voice in his ear.

“Easy,” John murmurs. “Easy, Sherlock.” Soothed, steadied, he finds a rhythm, finds a place where the hot throbbing of his body falls into line. On a tightrope, but steady, sustainable. “God, you’re so gorgeous like this,” John goes on. “If I were alpha right now, I’d be knotting you already. I couldn’t stop myself. Sooo lovely. Smells so good, too, even just like this.”

But Sherlock hardly registers the words, because while John is speaking, he folds the hem of Sherlock’s dressing gown up over his back and then, with infinite care, slides Sherlock’s trousers down to his knees. He can picture what John sees: his pale arse exposed the the air, the buzzing, incongruous black-and-turquoise knob of the toy sticking out, stretching him, ready to be prodded and pulled and played with. The slick of his arousal actually—actually running down his thighs, god he can feel a drop of it crawling. A husky sound escapes John’s throat, and a warm fingertip traces back up the cool path of the droplet. Then John’s warm palm snugs up into the top of his inner thigh, intimate and steady and alive, and John lets one knuckle press up against Sherlock’s perineum. No doubt John can feel the hard, humming bulk of the thing inside; he presses Sherlock’s flesh against it, giving him, from outside, a teasing hint of the sensation he craves within. Sherlock squirms and huffs against the cushion, spreading his knees out as wide as he can. 

“One more setting on this thing,” John says. “Shall we give it a whirl?”

The fifth and final setting is the knot the knot _the knot_.

“Yeah,” Sherlock says, but it comes out faint and breathy.

“What’s that?” John asks, cool and incurious. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock says again. “Yeah, yes, please, God, do it, do it.”

“Well,” John says. “Since you asked so nicely.”

“God, yeah,” Sherlock moans, and then a clever little motor whirrs to life, and the soft middle section of the toy contracts lengthwise and expands widthwise and _Jesus fuck yes, at last,_ like water on hot coals, and Sherlock’s whole being comes apart into steam. John is with him, touching him, his voice crooning, but Sherlock can’t make out the words, can’t sort out the touch, can only ride along in the color-pulsing darkness of his squeezed-shut eyes as every nerve is struck at once, as he pulses and shivers and juices and melts, endlessly.

And just as it does finally end, as the pleasure of the inhuman throbbing inside him threatens to turn into torture, John hits the switch and it _stops_. 

“God, Sherlock,” John breathes. His hand strokes unsteadily up and Sherlock’s spine. “God, gorgeous. I love this. I love you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps. “Out, get it out!”

John gets a slippery grip on the thing and, with Sherlock whimpering, withdraws it. The toy lands with a thump on the floor some distance off—chucked—and then John’s warm, clothed body comes close, and Sherlock slithers down sideways onto the floor, taking John with him. John’s arms around Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock shuddering, not knowing what to do with his limbs. He can still hear a phantom buzzing sound, can still feel the ghost of it inside him. 

“You okay?” John asks. 

“Mm-hmm,” Sherlock hums. John nuzzles against him, his fingers closing on a handful of the front of Sherlock’s shirt.

“I almost wasn’t sure you’d do it,” John says. “That thing is a little…”

“Excessive,” Sherlock says. 

“Excessive,” John agrees, and laughs. Sherlock laughs, too, the world coming back into focus a little. Except—except there’s still that buzzing, slightly higher pitched, now. Maybe not phantom after all. And, even considering everything, John is breathing a little…funny. Sherlock turns in his arms to peer at him sharply. 

John makes a sheepish expression, which is quite fetching with his flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.

“Yeah,” he says. “I thought I’d help myself, as long as I was snooping around in there.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He twists in John’s arms and snakes a hand up between John’s legs, outside of his clothes. John cooperates, huffing a little, and Sherlock’s fingers do indeed encounter something firm and buzzy in his nether regions. 

“Not quite as over the top as yours, but it…it has got me going.” John’s eyes are half-lidded, inward focused, his cheeks getting redder all the time.

“I should say it rather has,” Sherlock purrs. He gives the thing a push, and John licks his lips. “Feels like…the red one?”

“Yeah,” John says. “The red one.”

“I’m not surprised it caught your eye,” Sherlock says. He lets his hand start a slow, massaging motion. “But it won’t be enough by itself, most likely.” 

“No,” John agrees, breathless.

“Well then,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah,” John says. “I was hoping you might—if you’re not too…”

“Of course,” Sherlock rumbles, leaning into him, and John sighs and shivers a little. Sherlock nips him beneath the ear, and John gives a tiny gasp. “Bedroom, then? I’ve got loads of other stuff in that drawer.”

“Yeah,” says John, again. He never is very eloquent, in this state.

Sherlock levers himself up off the floor, then gives John a hand up. Sherlock follows him into their shared room, kicking off his pajama bottoms and shrugging out of the rest of his clothes on the way.


End file.
